A Little Deducing Merman
by shychouette
Summary: A Crossover between A Little Mermaid and Sherlock (BBC) because why not? Rating might change later.
1. Bored and Parties are Idiotic

"Come on, Sherlock, we're going to be late!"

The aforementioned merman let out an exasperated sigh, feeling the water being forced out of his throat. Unlike humans, there was a lack of bubbles to accompany and accentuate this sigh. Breathing underwater didn't give such a luxury. Sherlock had little care for such things, but what did interest him was the anatomy that made such a feat as breathing underwater possible.

His lungs functioned in a completely different manner from the creatures walking above. As his lungs took in air, his red blood circulated under the protective membrane inside the inner cavity of the lung, the cells would gorge on the oxygen from the water, but the water would not harm the parts of the organ that could filter the air. This allowed for some surfacing above water, but not for long periods of time, which-

"SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock was ripped from his ponderings of his species by the screams of Molly.

"Poseidon's sake, I'm coming," Sherlock said, retrieving one last item from the ship wreck. He'd procured many valuables from this wreck; he would definitely add them to his collection in the grotto. It had become a bit of a hobby to collect specimens from wrecks to distract Sherlock from his never-ending boredom between cases (and there was _definitely_ boredom.) These samples were far more important to him than something Mycroft was putting on. What was it again? A ball for someone's birthday? Anniversary? Sherlock had deleted the information long ago.

Molly swam into his face. "Sherlock, we have to high-tail it now or we're both chum!" Her petite fish body squirmed as she swam around in panic. She was just a silver convict tang, and a pale one at that. Her black stripes contorted as she swam in circles, emphasizing her agitation. Based on her scales high luster and that she was lacking her usual paranoid sensitivity, the detective confirmed she must have some sort of rendezvous to attend. Why she tagged along with him if she had something so "important" to get to, he had no idea. Sherlock wasn't exactly sharp in that category and he didn't plan on being so any time soon.

"Let's go!" Molly yelled again. This time, though, she sprinted off in the direction that lead to Atlantica. Hastily, the merman threw his samples into his bag. Shoulder bags weren't common for mermen, but Sherlock couldn't give a damn. It was small. It kept all his things. It was convenient. No other arguments needed.

He followed Molly to the coral reef that lead to the entrance to the kingdom. Sherlock could already hear the music of the party, reminding him of the numerous social interactions he would have to endure. Being a prince of the kingdom meant having to greet every single guest of the occasion. How Sherlock loathed these get-togethers. He barely had any interaction with Lestrade or Mycroft, and he actually knew them. Not that he ever actually wanted to engage in such interaction, especially with Mycroft, but, alas, sometimes it was unavoidable.

He sighed again and entered into the borders of Atlantica.

Only a half an hour into the party and Sherlock was already, as expected, bored. The event was apparently the anniversary of some government official that was close to his father and he had managed to greet most of the guests. His father, recently passed, seemed to have to have too many acquaintances. These soirees occurred too often for Sherlock's liking and he didn't really see the need for such things. Not to mention his passing meant more duties for the merman to carry out. He would never want to be king. Too many events to attend, too many ambiguous citizens to shake hands with, too many concerns he thought were just useless clutter inside a mind that could be used for much greater endeavors. Though, to his utter dismay, he still had responsibilities as prince and heir.

Mycroft seemed to be enjoying himself, at least to everyone else in the room. The new king was just as bored as he was, though he was making more of an effort to look interested than Sherlock. Appearances always were a top priority for Mycroft. Being the new ruler of Atlantica made such concerns grow in importance. Sherlock watched as his brother conversed with an older merwoman. With his usual political smile he seemed to be enraptured in the discussion. The bored price would do the same, but there were no cases to be had, no data to collect, no profit in such tedious interaction. So he just sat on his small throne and assumed his usual position of boredom. He looked on at the dull gathering, watching merpeople laugh and smile, having fun. If the detective didn't possess a superior intellect, he might be doing the same. Except his idea of fun was a new cadaver, not drinks with companions.

"I see you're not exactly having the best time, dear."

Sherlock glanced to the right to see Mrs. Hudson on the arm rest.

She was a quite caring for a crab. She was supposed to be some spy for Mycroft to keep an eye on Sherlock, but she was really more of an enabler for his antics.

"It was highly improbable that I would be," Sherlock replied, shifting his head to rest on his left arm instead of his right in order to give Mrs. Hudson more room.

"To be honest with you, I'm not having a "bang-up" time myself," she said, giving a snap of her pinkish claw, "Whoever planned this party obviously doesn't know how to have a good time."

"I assume you could do better?" the prince inquired.

"Far better," Mrs. Hudson stated, snapping her claws again. "Back when your father had birthday parties, now those were the days. I would get the band into a good swing and everyone would shake their tail fin."

A little half-smile tickled Sherlock's face. At least Mrs. Hudson could provide him some sort of stimuli. If companions were vital to his existence, she would be his first choice.

Suddenly Mrs. Hudson said, "Did you hear about the ship that's supposed to be above us tonight?"

Sherlock actually had received that information from Scuttle. He was one of the many gulls from the network he used to get information. Gulls can fly around as they please, but simultaneously be a usual aspect of the scenery- the perfect spies. But for the sake of Mrs. Hudson and the conversation they were having, he replied with a no.

"Well," Mrs. Hudson said, lowering her claws and leaning in like any other woman would when sharing gossip, "Supposedly it's some ship just back from some war on land. Poor creatures. Too many of those, if you ask me. Life under here is much more peaceful."

The prince nodded in agreement. Altlanica rarely experienced conflict. There were some other clans of merpeople scattered across the seven seas, but each clan preferred to keep to themselves and no one had tried to prove otherwise. Sherlock found it a bit dull to not have a globalized society of merpeople, but he didn't have the power or the desire to make the effort to change things.

"Any way," Mrs. Hudson said, her voice now a whisper, "What I'm worried about is the storm that's coming. Poor dears have to return home from bloodshed and be confronted by more bad luck. Darn shame, I'd say."

This piqued Sherlock's interest. Storms usually produced some sort of wreckage. More wreckage meant more data. He wasn't hoping the humans would die, of course not. Even if he could bring a cadaver back to examine, he would never hope that they would die.

"Go," Mrs. Hudson said.

Sherlock looked back at her again, a bit surprised at her response. She glanced back at him.

"You think you're the only one who can deduce, dear? I've been with you long enough to know what's going on in that little head of yours. You go; I'll cover for you somehow."

Sherlock smiled again and gave her a nod of gratitude as he slipped out of his thrown and casually swam away.


	2. Above the Water and the Prince

As soon as he was out of sight and retrieved his bag, Sherlock started swimming leagues at a time. Only this sort of excitement came with cases and finding new data; tonight it was the latter, and Sherlock was brimming with anticipation for new samples. He zipped up through the reefs, up into the open ocean before the surface and pumped his tail muscles as a last sprint to break the surface. He burst through the water and up into the open, drawing in a breath of salty air. He hastily glanced around, trying and find a higher vantage point. Spotting a half-submerged rock, he dove back into the water and swam towards it. As he vaulted himself onto the boulder, Sherlock searched for the ship.

He could see the dark clouds gathering on the horizon. The moon was partially covered, giving an eerie feel to the rippling abyss of sea. Sherlock heard a drum of thunder in the distance; the storm was gathering power. The moon was uncovered for a moment as the wind blew the clouds away. There!

Sherlock spotted the decrepit ship. Even from this distance, Sherlock could see the damage that pockmarked the boat. He was surprised it was even still sea-worthy. If compassion wasn't a weakness, Sherlock may have felt a twinge of sympathy. Although if they were maybe a bit smarter and more diplomatic, they wouldn't have such problems to begin with. Of course it was only from their stupidity that Sherlock was able to gather samples from the wreckage, so Sherlock was almost glad of their lack of intelligence. Almost.

Sherlock fetched his spy-glass from his bag, probably the only considerate present Mycroft had ever gave him. To be completely honest, though, it was actually Mrs. Hudson's idea to give him such a gift, as Mycroft lacked the capacity to know what his brother would ever want for a gift.

Sherlock looked through and focused on the deck of the ship. From the looks of things, it seemed as though there was a party going on. Obviously the humans didn't notice a storm that was slowly approaching behind them. How they could be that stupid, the detective had yet to discover. He saw someone fall off the side of the ship in his spy glass and from the looks of things no one was in a hurry to rescue him. The man resurfaced quickly and looked as though he was laughing and coughing at the same time. The crew members were also laughing and were leaning over the rail, almost falling off themselves. It was painstakingly obvious that they were intoxicated.

Sherlock scanned the entire deck of the ship and all of the crew seemed to be anywhere from a bit tipsy to completely hammered. Except… one man still seemed to be aware. He was at the bow of the ship, looking over the side with what looked to be a tankard in his hand. Sherlock couldn't see his face, as he was turned away from Sherlock's view. Curious as usual, Sherlock dove back into the water to get a closer look.

Prince John Watson drained the rest of his tankard. The men had encouraged drinking till morning to celebrate the end of the battle. It was quite the gruesome one, but the war was mostly over. It had yet to be officially declared, but it was clear that John's country had won. The prince would have stayed for the formal signing of the treaty to end the war, but he had gotten injured and he was ordered back home. He knew he had gotten shot in the shoulder, but for some reason he had a bit of a limp now. His whole body was pretty banged up, though, so he just chalked it up as a minor injury that would recover eventually.

He set his glass down on the deck and looked out onto the sea. It was darker than usual, though it was somewhere in the wee hours of the morning; still the blackness was a bit unsettling. Peppering this darkness were the lights on the water from the ship. They moved with the waves, churning in synchronization with the water.

John was starting to regret those last few ales as he felt his stomach churn with nausea.

"Highness? Highness!"

John quickly turned around and immediately regretted the movement. He gripped his gut as he turned to see his butler, Michael, coming toward him relatively fast. Even though Michael was his butler, John considered the chubby fellow a dear friend of his. Michael had served John since his childhood and they had forged quite the bond.

"Yes, what is it, Michael?" John said, trying to remain composed even though his stomach was doing flips inside him.

"Highness," he gave a quick bow, "There seems to be a large thunderstorm heading our way. I'd advise that we act fast and get to the dock as quickly as possible."

John had not noticed such a storm. He had almost blurted out, "What storm?" when a huge clap of thunder boomed, almost over their heads. John and Michael looked up to see dark clouds raging toward them.

Then the rain started to pour.

"Get the men to their stations!" commanded John, the gentle prince gone. Watson was now a war worn solider.

"Aye, sir!" said Michael, jogging off to try and get the crew back in working order. John knew quite a few of the crew were down for the count, but he prayed there would be enough to get the ship going.

"Quick, furl the sails!" John yelled, rushing to the aft of the boat to get to the helm. He needed to steer the boat away from anything they could be heading towards.

"The wind's too strong!" yelled one of his crew members.

"Damn it!" John cursed, grabbing hold of the wheel. Just then a huge wave crashed onto the boat. The crew was washed to one side, only to be saved by the wooden rail. Some almost went over, but clung to the rail for dear life. John saved himself by gripping the wheel with all his might.

"Get to the life boats, now! GO, GO, GO!" John bellowed over the storm. The crew scrambled to get back on deck and cram into the lifeboats. Some of them had been lost to the wave, but luckily there were just enough to get the crew off. John was making his way toward one of the lifeboats as a bolt of lightning struck one of the main sails. It caught fire and started to blaze widely. John rushed toward the lifeboat and jumped in as it started to push off. John got settled into the boat and did a quick count of everyone. One member was missing.

There were hysterical barks coming from the now flaming boat. John whipped his head back to find the one missing crew member. It was his bull dog, Gladstone. He probably had gotten caught up in the commotion and then left behind.

"I have to go get him," John said, getting ready to dive back into the water.

"You can't," Michael said, grabbing John's arm, "It's too risky for just a dog."

"That, 'just a dog' is a loyal friend of mine and there is no way I am going to let him to die." John said firmly, shoving Sebastian's grip off. Before Sebastian could protest any further, John dove into the raging waves.

The waves were icy cold, but John had little time to shiver. He resurfaced and started paddling back toward the ship. He climbed up one of the ladders on the side of the ship and managed to get on top of the deck. He quickly scanned the deck, trying to find his furry friend.

John ran in the direction the barks were coming from and spotted him. The dog was trapped on the elevated part of the deck. There was fire below him, trapping him in an inferno. The normally courageous bull dog was whining and trembling with fear.

"You have to jump!" John said, trying to stay away from the fire that licked at his boots. Gladstone circled in worry. John could see that he was terrified, and after all Gladstone was never one for flames. "It's alright, I'll catch you," John said calmly. Now was not the time to panic.

Reluctantly the dog looked down and then both ways. A part of mast crashed close to him, giving him the motivation to jump. John caught him and quickly ran starboard to where the lifeboat was still floating. He chucked his dog into the boat and he was caught by Michael. John was about to jump into the drink when there was an explosion from under him. The fire had gotten to the gunpowder below decks. John was knocked off balance and slid to port. The boat was now off-kilter and sinking. John tried to regain his footing, when another explosion ripped through the boat. John was flung aft and he crashed into the door to the cabin, knocking him unconscious.


	3. A Catalyst Prince

Sherlock had bared witness to these events from afar. He was treading water near the life boat, but not close enough to be seen. His brother was always warning him to never interfere with the humans, so he kept his distance at all times (despite desperately wanting samples.) The man, or "John" as his men seemed to call him, that had intrigued his curiosity had just risked his life to save a dog and now was in danger. A man this interesting could not be lost. Sherlock had to intervene.

The explosions continued to destroy the boat, ripping it to pieces. He calculated the odds of John surviving and found they were slim, but that didn't mean he had no chance at all. Sherlock made quick time searching for the man among the wreckage. He dove down deep to see if he had started to sink, and then would resurface again to see if he was drifting on a piece of wreckage. Sherlock continued doing this until his lungs burned from switching from water to air in such quick succession. The merman heaved in breaths above surface, still trying to find the prince.

He heard a cough off in the distance.

He whipped his head around to find John half on a piece of wreckage, and he was slipping.

Sherlock had to act fast; he quickly dove again and darted toward John. He had already slipped off the piece of wood and was sinking slowly into the depths of the sea. Sherlock dove down and caught him. Bubbles drifted from John's mouth, reminding the merman he was losing time. With the same speed as before, he pumped his tail muscles as fast as he was able. Finally he broke the surface. There was no reaction from John, and that was not a good sign. He quickly swam toward the nearest shore and placed him on the sand.

Sherlock hauled himself onto the shore with the strength he had left. Despite his weakness, the detective needed to administer aid. He crawled over to John's seemingly lifeless body, tail dragging in the wet sand. Assuming John's heart was located in the same place as his, Sherlock put his ear to the man's chest. He heard nothing. John wasn't breathing. How could he save him? He needed to save him. He vaguely remembered an old text he had found in the library in Atlantica on how to perform something called mouth to mouth resuscitation. He knew now anything was worth a shot. He tilted John's head back a bit and held his nose. Sherlock didn't hesitate to place his lips on John's and blow air into his lungs. He hovered his ear over the John's mouth and looked at his chest to see if it was rising. No good. Sherlock was about to try again when suddenly John started coughing. Sherlock backed away a bit to give him some space. When John's hacking had ceased and he seemed to be breathing normally Sherlock went back to his original position at the man's side.

"What... happened?" John said, his voice hoarse from coughing.

"You almost drowned after your ship exploded. Without my help you'd be in the drink. I'm surprised you were able to swim back to your ship in the first place, what with your injuries. Not to mention that was quite the risk for the prince to put his life on the line to save a lowly cabin boy, John," Sherlock responded, stating the obvious.

"How did you..." John tried to sit up, winced and lied back down. "How did you know... all that... and my name? Have we... have we met?" Sherlock could see John searching for something in his face, some detail to hold onto. But, no, Sherlock could feel the sun on his back from the sunrise. The glare was probably protecting his identity.

"I knew all that because it was obvious and I doubt my name is important."

"Of course it's important! You saved me!" John abruptly leaned upwards, a wave of dizziness making him fall back down onto the sand. A glare at his savior would have to suffice. "And to know all that about me, that's... that's brilliant."

Sherlock was taken aback by that statement. Usually people called him a freak for having such talents. They were just closed-minded, not open enough to see the clearly obvious answers that were staring them directly in the face. When Sherlock pointed out these facts, he was just ostracized, but this man was praising him for such feats. If he hadn't been curious enough about Prince John, now he was at the peak of intrigue.

"...Thank you..." Sherlock uttered, still a bit dazed from the compliment.

"Now...about your name..." John said starting to form the question when he felt the fatigue of his experiences in the last couple hours hit him like the waves that had almost drowned him. No. No. He couldn't pass out. Not before he knew his savior's name. He had to at least have that.

But no. His eyes started to sag and his vision started to tunnel as he began to drift into unconsciousness.

Sherlock placed a tentative hand on John's chest to make sure he was still breathing. He let it linger there, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, confirming his livelihood.

"John! John!"

Sherlock couldn't stay any longer.

Michael rushed to the limp body of his master. He was prepared for the worst, but was relieved to see that he was still alive and breathing. He looked around for a possible person to thank for this miracle, but Sherlock was already gone.

"What have I told you about going to the surface? It's dangerous and no place for a prince!" Mycroft said, pacing, or at least the mer-equivalent of pacing, in front of his thrown.

"Mycroft it is not your duty, nor your job to order me around," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes in annoyance, "I'm not some guard that can be easily replaced."

"But that's exactly my point," Mycroft retorted, "I can't have a crown prince, my brother, fraternizing with the affairs of the land dwellers. What do you think that would do to our public image?" Mycroft paced towards Sherlock this time, his face now inches away from Sherlock's. "What if they had caught you? They would have experimented on you until you were of no use to them any longer. I assume you would not want to be on the other side of the examining table." Mycroft turned around and started back to his thrown. He looked over his shoulder with a glare. "I don't want you going back to the surface, Sherlock."

"But-" Sherlock started.

"We are finished." Mycroft said firmly, grasping his hands behind his back.

Sherlock decided it wasn't worth his time to try and get into a spat with his brother. He was in one of his moods where he was too pig-headed to understand anything logical. With a sigh, Sherlock left the throne room and started towards his hideout, a grotto located in the outskirts of Atlantica. It was the only place where he could be alone without being plagued by social demands of being a prince. Inside were his copious amounts of data from his escapades in ship wrecks, all organized in efficient groups along the walls of the cavern. He had appliances, inventions, utensils and even multiple "thingamabobs" as Molly called them.

Simple trinkets only satisfied a simple need. He needed actual specimens to even begin to dissect the race from above. He yearned to be on the surface among the human race. He wanted to see how they moved, how they interacted. He could only get so far with the numerous books he'd retrieved over the years. He needed to be up there, amongst them, to get the details he needed to see the full picture.

He didn't want to just ask questions to himself. He was frustrated with the answers his current resources had to offer. For example, he didn't have a book to explain how the phenomena "fire" burned. Sure he knew what it was, but how did it come to be? What components were needed to create it? Why was it shaped in such it fashion? To what degree could one touch it before ill effects occurred? These questions and more required assimilation. Assimilation required a pair of legs and Sherlock knew, to his dismay, those were unattainable.

Just then Molly came into the cave with something in tow.

"Sherlock, look what I found!" Molly said, dragging her discovery into the center of the cave using her mouth. She seemed quite eager about it. Then again, Molly was always eager to get Sherlock what he wanted. It was convenient, so Sherlock never questioned her motives.

Sherlock grabbed the specimen off the cave floor and examined it. It was a painting and was quite a small and modest one at that. The rectangular frame was wooden with a bit of golden embellishment and the glass was already a bit chipped. Water had started to seep into the painting, distorting the colors, but Sherlock knew what it depicted. It was the man he had saved just the day before.

John.

It was a military portrait, with John in a uniform. It seemed like John had tried to look stately, but a bit of a smirk had gotten through the hard expression he had tried to assume. There were medals decorating his breast as well as a single star above them. From Sherlock's research on various militaries, that usually meant a very high rank. Of course Sherlock already knew John was a prince, but John seemed to be a prince of action. Sherlock liked that. To him it even seemed a bit attractive.

Sherlock was surprised at this feeling. He had never felt any attraction to any merpeople or the like. No one ever seemed to amount to his intellect. In their ignorance, they would just brush him off as a freak that was too observant. How could the detective ever find such foolishness attractive?

John, though, had said he was brilliant.

Sherlock felt heat rush to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. Was he actually blushing? Had this man interested him so much that it would cause such a hormonal reaction? He traced the slight smirk with his finger. Maybe he had. Sherlock knew one thing for sure. He had to see John again.

"Sherlock?"

He lifted his gaze from the painting and realized Molly was still there, swimming a bit apprehensively.

Sherlock suddenly felt the need to get Molly out of the cavern. He wanted to be alone for some reason and he wanted to be quickly.

"Molly, this is quite useful. I appreciate it," the worlds felt foreign as they fell off his tongue. Sherlock appreciated and thanked no one. He mostly did everything himself to begin with, so there was never much of a need to utter a polite "thank you". On occasion Molly did bring something of interest, but rarely. Usually it was either broken or something he already had twenty of. Still, she at least brought _something_, and that was why Sherlock had continued his relationship with her.

"Could you find more, Molly?" Sherlock asked. That was the most logical method to get her out of there. Send her on a chase for something, she could possibly bring an item of interest back.

"You mean like one of those thingamabobs?" Molly said, glancing over at the collection.

"Yes, that would be lovely."

Molly lit up at the sound of that. "Okay." she said with a smile. She darted out of the cave, eager to please.

Finally. Alone. Sherlock's gaze was once again attracted to the painting. He had yet to put it down. He was even gripping it tightly, as if the painting meant the entire world to him. Maybe it did. Sherlock let himself drift to the bottom of the grotto and sit on the sand. He had to see John again. He had to. The impossibility be damned, he was going to find a way. For the first time he let go of the painting and gingerly laid it on the sand. He began to pace. How could he do it? How could he get himself a pair of legs? Surgery was out of the question. It would never work and he didn't have any legs to attach himself to anyway. How, how, how. Sherlock was beginning to get frustrated, another rare occurrence that John seemed to be the catalyst to. Sherlock angrily banged his fist against the wall of the cave, almost knocking over his trinkets.

"Need some help, mate?"

Sherlock turned around, startled. Swimming about eye level was an eel. Sherlock actually had an enmity with eels. He'd never liked them, the slimy excuses for fish. They always had something up their fins, and it usually was something distasteful.

"I can get you what you need," the eel said, starting to circle around Sherlock lazily.

"And how would you exactly accomplish that?" Sherlock asked, already annoyed.

"My boss has..." he paused a bit, then a grin crawled on his face, "...connections."

Sherlock frowned in distaste. It was clearly a trap; plain as day. This eel's "boss" was probably just some random criminal that slinked around in the darker depths of the ocean, wanting to capture the prince for some personal gain.

"My boss also knows about that bloke you want to meet." the eels said, motioning toward the picture on the ground. "Quite dashing, isn't he?" The smirk slithered onto the eels face once again.

This changed things. He obviously was dealing with something bigger than an urchin in the gross corners of Atlantica. Whatever "connections" this boss had, he obviously had good ones. Sherlock still knew this was a trap, but if this eel was telling the truth, maybe he could outsmart the boss and get what he wanted.

A corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched upward. "Take me to him." he said.

"As you wish, highness," said the eel, making an exaggerated bowing motion.


	4. Warlocks, Deals with Legs on the Side

A thousand apologies for not getting this in sooner. A bunch of stuff came up at once and I had to of course do it all at once. As an added bonus I'm a bit under the weather right now, but it's nothing serious. I hope you lovelies enjoy these new longer chapters. They take a but longer to get done, but I would assume it would be better than getting a short chapter after a long wait. Any way ON WITH THE SHOW.

* * *

The eel, Sebastian, lead Sherlock far away from Atlantica. They swam for quite a while until they came upon the carcass of a giant fish. The coral it sat upon had started to mold to the bones left from the fish's demise had whittled the rib cage to nothing, replacing it with its own growth. The coral jutted upwards, blunted tentacles pointing towards the sky. Its tail had been preserved and was laying off to the side of the coral mountain it sat upon. Even more eerie, its eyeballs had been preserved as well, making then shining globes of turquoise. Its maw was frozen in a screech, pointed teeth exposed and threatening; its mouth was open wide enough to fit at least one hundred mermen. As they approached the entry, Sherlock could see a bright, magenta glow coming from the mouth of the fish and some smoke surrounding it. The eel kept going, but Sherlock paused. He started to observe the knife-like teeth of the giant fish, attempting to figure out what species it was.

"Come on," Sebastian urged, swimming further into the rib cage. Sherlock complied and swam behind him. The coral had lined the ways of the cage, forming a cave inside.. As Sherlock swam in further, he noticed something writhing on the cave floor. In the darkness he couldn't make out what it was, but he assumed it was just a type of seaweed, until the jaws of one of the stalks grasped his arm. He gasped in surprise to find the "stalks" all had faces that were on heads that seemed bloated compared to the rest of their rail thin stalk bodies. None of the faces were distinguishable from one another; all of them had wrinkled visages that were contorted in agony and wide hollow eyes. They all writhed in dances of torment, and started to reach up toward Sherlock, grasping his arms as if to warn him of what was ahead.

He struggled against the stalks vice-like grip and managed to break free. Sebastian seemed to have disappeared.

"Come, _in_, honey." said a voice inside the cave, "You know it's _rude_ to just stand at the front door gawking." Sherlock saw eight tentacles creep out from the darkest part of the cave. Maybe Sherlock was right about this boss. The tentacles were attached to a human body, similar to that of a merman. This man had eyes dark as the lowest chasms of the sea and a smirk almost permanently stuck on his face. He moved his eight tentacles with a swagger that would seem impossible for a normal octopus that oozed cheekiness

"You'd think being raised at the palace would guarantee good manners," the man-octopus said, rolling his eyes.

"I remember you," said Sherlock, "You were the culprit of the coup that happened years ago!"

"The name is Moriarty, hun," he said, coming over and shaking Sherlock's hand, "And it wasn't really a 'coup' more of a…forced promotion."

"You tried to overthrow the king,"

"I was just being ambitious," Moriarty said with a dramatic shrug, "All I was trying to do was get ahead in life and what do I get? Banishment for all eternity from your dear old daddy. How is he doing by the way?" Moriarty put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Dead,"

"Oh, what a _shame_." Moriarty flamboyantly covered his mouth in surprise, letting go of the prince's shoulder. Just then Sherlock felt one of the octopus's tentacles brush up against his arse. He jumped a bit in surprise.

"Oooo, touchy," he said flirtatiously. "I like that."

Sherlock kept his face composed.

Moriarty's eyes gave Sherlock a once over and then he let out a sigh, dissatisfied with his lack of reaction.

"Anyway," Moriarty said, turning back to some sort of cabinet on the wall, "I understand you're infatuated with a prince from above." Moriarty looked over his shoulder, his know-it-all grin back on his face. "I understand he's quite the catch."

"I'm not infatuated." Sherlock spat.

"Don't lie to yourself, sugar, you've fallen head over tailfin for that land hunk." Moriarty started to throw bottles of various sizes and colors into some sort cauldron-like mouth in the center of the cave. "Frankly, I don't blame you. What I wouldn't give to get my tentacles on_ him_." Moriarty giggled as he threw two more bottles into the mouth.

"I still don't see how you'll be able to help me," Sherlock crossed his arms, seeming to be bored. In reality he was enraged with this low life thinking such thoughts about his specimen. How dare he think such vulgar things about John. How dare he even _think_ that he would ever have a chance with John. Before Sherlock could go any further he caught himself. What was he becoming, a jealous teenage mergirl? What was John doing to him? All this emotion and feeling boiling up inside him, and of all things jealousy? This was foreign territory Sherlock did _not_ want to encroach upon; it a weakness that he couldn't afford. Yet… there was some other small part of him that thought otherwise…

"Oh, heh heh heh," the sea warlock giggled, "I've yet to introduce you to my whole pitch."

Moriarty went back into Sherlock's personal space. "Ya see I help poor unfortunate souls like yourself. People who want what they can't get, that's what I'm for. I'm pretty much a saint." Moriarty sailed back over to the cauldron. "A little magic here, a little payment there, and I can make anyone's dream come true." He trailed his finger along a tooth of the cauldron. "The only catch is you have to pay," he rapidly turned and shoved his face into Sherlock's, "Or you're _mine_."

Sherlock heard moans of anguish from the creatures behind him.

"Ah yes, you met my 'garden' back there," the warlock pointed to where the stalks that had attacked Sherlock were. "That's what happens when you can't pay."As the warlock said this, his face contorted into almost a growl. "MAGIC DOESN'T COME FREE, IDIOTS!" he yelled in response to the cries that had gotten louder. "IT'S NOT MY FAULT THAT THE MERHUMAN RACE IS SO _STUPID _TO AGREE TO A BARGAIN THEY CAN'T PAY FOR!" He then looked at Sherlock, changed back to what he was only minutes before, "Honestly, I don't even know why I keep them," he said, jabbing his thumb in the garden's direction, "But it's their punishment, they can't die, that's what PEOPLE do, not plants trapped for eternity." The word "people" stirred up more screams and moans, causing Moriarty to roll his eyes in annoyance.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Were people ever able to really pay?

"So, long story short, I can give you legs so you can have lovely kisses and romantic walks on the beach with that hot prince up there."

Sherlock blushed furiously. That was obviously _not_ his intention.

"God, you're cute," Moriarty said, "Any who, let's get to the good stuff." Moriarty motioned Sherlock over to the cauldron. He hesitantly swam over. Smoke had started to boil up from the cauldron in fumes.

"I can make you a potion that can make you a human for a week," the smoke showed Sherlock transforming into a man, "Normally I'd do it for only three days, but I think this prince of yours still may be having some issues with which way he swings, if ya know what I mean," he said, jabbing his elbow towards Sherlock as if they were mates joking about something. It made Sherlock cringe slightly." So I'll give you a bonus, but writing is off limits. That would just make it too easy." Moriarty's grin grew wider as he changed the smoke again, this time it showed a heart with a crown encircling it. "Now, before sunset on the seventh day you have to get your prince to give you a smooch. And not just any smooch, nuh-uh, it has to be the kiss of true love." Moriarty, to Sherlock's disgust, made kissing sounds before he continued. "If you don't get a lip-lock before then, you belong to me." Moriarty clapped his hands through the smoke, dissipating it immediately. "Any questions?" he asked, winking at Sherlock.

"You spoke of payment."

"Ah yes, clever, clever," Moriarty went back into the cabinet and retrieved a conch shell. "I'll give your legs for the itty-bitty price of," he paused dramatically, "Your voice."

"My... voice?" Sherlock said.

"Yes," Moriarty purred, "I just love everything about it. I must have it. The least you could do is lend it to me for a week." Moriarty pouted and made a sort of puppy-dog face.

"How am I going to "seduce" a man if I don't have a voice," said Sherlock, sarcastically using air quotes.

"Honestly, do I have to think of everything for you?" Moriarty said, rolling his eyes once again. "A little piece of advice then: don't under estimated the power of," Moriarty paused as he put the conch down and rubbed his hands along his hips, "_body language_."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He didn't really see the threat in this man.

"To be completely honest, men up above don't really like idle chatter any way. You're probably better off not being able to talk to being with."

Sherlock highly doubted that.

"You'll just need to sign on this dotted line," Moriarty said. A gold contract appeared in one hand and a pen made of a fish's spine in the other.

Sherlock knew better than to just sign a contract he had yet to read. He thoroughly examines it, reading all of the text, fine and otherwise. The contract itself wasn't all that long briefly stating what was already talked about earlier and nothing else. It seemed a bit simple, but perhaps this was Moriarty's game. When everything's simple, what is there to worry about? To the common mind, nothing, but to Sherlock's it meant everything. The simplest scale could mean everything in a murder; the simplest contract could mean everything in an agreement. . He of course could seem insecure about the simplicity, but he couldn't let Moriarty see that, no, that would give him the advantage. He would have to pass as a pompous git to give the warlock a false sense of security. It was a risk, but all the better if it worked. Such an underestimation of the detective would put him at a disadvantage, which Sherlock could exploit later.

Sherlock made a scoffing noise, grabbed the pen eagerly and signed his name as boisterously as he could.

"Let's get this show on the road!" Moriarty exclaimed. He swirled the potion in the cauldron around by making circular motions with his arms. Multiple colors of smoke started to combust from the cauldron as Moriarty swirled the potion faster and faster.

Sherlock tried to get a closer look but instead saw something horrifying. A hand made of green smoke snaked out of the shell and was darting toward him. It slithered into his throat and up into his mouth, going deeper and deeper. He was close to choking as the hand reached farther, burning his esophagus along the way. Suddenly, it seemed to grasp something and yanked at it. Sherlock yelled in agony, but was muted when the hand quickly drew out of his throat a glowing light. From the light emanated the timbres of Sherlock's voice: his baritone sarcasm, his staccato deductions, his cries of boredom, even the yell that had been cut off earlier. The hand receded into the conch shell as fast as it came before, Sherlock's voice in its grasp.

"Payment received," Moriarty said, sneering, "Here's your reward." The smoke blew up into a giant crescendo. A tentacle of the potion enveloped Sherlock in a bubble and began the process. Lightening crashed and the maniacal cackle of Moriarty bounced of the ribs of his lair. Sherlock could feel his tail being ripped apart. He writhed inside the bubble as his tail split into two legs. He curled into the fetal position, trying to contain the pain of the transformation. He folded in on himself tighter and tighter, when suddenly the bubble quickly popped.

Sherlock opened his mouth in surprised and almost gasped when he realized something else had been taken from him. He could no longer breathe under water! He tried to kick his tail, but then realized there wasn't one. He started to panic, trying to get his newfound limbs to function.

"Sherlock!" someone yelled from the entrance. It was Mrs. Hudson with Molly in tow.

Sherlock wanted to express his gratitude for Mrs. Hudson's worry, but his lungs begged for air. They felt like they were on fire and shriveling at the same time. Mrs. Hudson noticed this and hurried over with Molly. Sherlock noticed that two dolphins had accompanied them.

What was Sherlock doing? He had to get himself to safety. He feebly tried to kick his legs and propel himself, but to no avail. Sherlock grew weaker as he started to drown in unconsciousness. He felt the dolphins come under him and them pushing him toward the surface. As the darkness completely enveloped him, he heard Moriarty coyly yell in the distance, "Come again, sugar!"

"You can come out now, dear," Moriarty said, looking back at the corner he had hid in once before.

"When did you notice me?" said a woman's velvety voice. Out of the darkness came out none other than the Dominatrix, Irene Adler. She was a beautiful merwoman, with the tail of an angel fish. She had often helped Moriarty on occasion, though she did have a bit of distaste for the man. In all honesty, he and his tentacles made her skin crawl.

"Irene, dear, I can sniff you out a league away," Moriarty said, resting his elbows on the cauldron.

"Quite the deal you just made," she said, putting her hands on her hips, "It's not always you get to serve royalty."

"You're right," Moriarty said, stirring his finger in the remnants of the potion in the cauldron, "But that's all going to change."

"And how's that?" Irene asked, though she could guess the answer.

"Well, if you must know," Moriarty said, "I'm going to mess with his contract. There is no way I'm letting him get away. He presents so many opportunities for me, oh and _you too."_

"Really?" Irene said, with purposive lack of enthusiasm.

"Yes, you'll get to be my right hand gal." Moriarty gave a coy smile, as if that could convince Irene further.

"What do you want me to do?" the merwoman said with a huff, cutting to the chase. She knew Moriarty's methods, and nothing was without a price when it came to him.

"Well, I'm going to have you screw with that prince's contract, if you would pardon the pun."

"You expect me to just up and have sex with a total strangerjust so I can supposedly be by your side in Atlantica?"

"Yup, that's the plan."

"I don't even know why I bother with you sometimes…" Irene said with a sigh.

"You still _owe _me, Irene," Moriarty said, spinning around suddenly to look at her. His eyes were black again in simmering rage. "I helped that pretty little face of yours, but I only kept you because you seemed useful to me. One false move, just _one_, and I will make sure your eternity will be more excruciating than the rest of my garden." He had narrowed his eyes and had made his way over to the Dominatrix, and was now almost on top of her. She'd begun to shrink under him; she also knew when he was in one of these moods it was an assurance of survival to stay out of his way.

"I'm sure royalty will suit you," she said with a bit more enthusiasm to stave off the warlock's mood.

"Honey," Moriarty said, rubbing his hands together, "You should see me in a crown."

Sherlock woke up face first in sand. What a pleasant way to greet the morning. He struggled to get up, but his arms felt gelatinous and he collapsed back into the sand.

"Glad to see you awake."

Sherlock glanced to see Mrs. Hudson pinching her claws in satisfaction.

"Thank you for the rescue," he said. Or at least that's what he tried to say, but nothing came out. Sherlock flopped onto his back, wishing he could thank Mrs. Hudson because she actually deserved it.

"What's wrong dear?" the pink crab said worriedly.

Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it again, feeling idiotic. He shook his head and touched his throat (he also noted the lack of gills).

"Oh Sherlock, don't tell me you made a deal with that warlock." Sherlock nodded. "So you gave up your voice to live on land, dear?" Another nod. Thank Poseidon Mrs. Hudson could put two and two together relatively quickly.

"Well, at least he told the truth when he said he'd give you a pair of legs," Mrs. Hudson said as she pointed her claw toward where Sherlock's fin used to be.

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows slowly to get a better look at his legs. They were long and slender with what Sherlock presumed were feet attached to them. He wiggled what he thought were called toes and smiled at his new found skill. Feeling energized he tried to stand up and immediately regretted it as he fell backwards on his arse. Much to his chagrin he heard Mrs. Hudson giggle a bit.

"Mind as well get back up and try again, dear. You'll need the practice."

Sherlock pouted as he tried to get up again. This time he stayed up for about 30 seconds before he fell again. Progression. After some maneuvering though, he managed to get used to his center of gravity and achieved balance. Now came the hard part: walking.

Sherlock had seen many a land dweller walk, but actually doing it was another situation entirely. Trying to imitate from memory, Sherlock started putting one foot in front of the other for about two feet before his arms were flailing and he was struggling to stay up right. This was entirely humiliating. Maybe along with the legs, Moriarty could have included some instructions.

"Once you get yourself sorted, I suggest you find something to put on dear. You're stark naked," said Mrs. Hudson, who had sat through the entire thing chuckling here and there.

Sherlock did realize that, yes, he was indeed naked. It was actually pretty cold. He really would have to figure out how to get something to cover himself up.

Suddenly in the distance he heard the barking of a dog and a yell of someone familiar.

"Sherlock, quick, cover yourself!" Mrs. Hudson said frantically as she scuttled to hide behind the nearest rock. Sherlock looked around quickly and found a mast that still had a sail attached to it. It would have to do. He wrapped himself in it like he did at home with the sheets from his bed. Mycroft would always tell him to dress more sophisticated than just a sheet, but it wasn't as if he would ever take his brother's advice. "A prince should know better," he would always say. Well, damn him, this was serious.

"Gladstone! Come here boy!' yelled the familiar voice. Sherlock heard barks growing louder and louder until he was assaulted by a bull dog. It barked at him and chased him up a small rock. Sherlock was drawing his feet in and trying to shoo the dog away when the owner of the familiar voice came.

It was John! Sherlock couldn't believe it.

"Oh my..." John said, pushing Gladstone away from Sherlock. "Are you alright?" Sherlock nodded.

"Can't speak, eh?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Hm," John said. He started to look Sherlock up and down with a concerned expression on his face. Suddenly Sherlock was more self-conscious of his sail.

"Do I…do I know you from somewhere?" John asked.

_Well yes, I saved your life, _is what Sherlock wanted to say, but he could never risk revealing the existence of his race. He couldn't talk anyhow, so he shook his head again.

"Hm," John said again. The prince studied Sherlock for a moment, cataloging him.

"Have we met before?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head again. John couldn't know his identity. For once the detective was going to follow his brother's advice. This was certainly not a good time to reveal the existence of a whole other species of human that lived underwater.

"Were you ship wrecked?" John said, concern seeping into his tone.

Sherlock considered this. It would be a good idea to use that as an excuse, though that may not explain why Sherlock didn't have any clothes. The other plans he'd already formulated in his mind wouldn't be as good as just saying he had been on a wreck, not to mention how tedious it would be to communicate another excuse . The former merman nodded.

"I see..." John said, slowly nodding. He licked his lips. "I'm guessing then you have no idea where you are and you also have nowhere to stay." Another nod.

"Well…I can't leave you out here..." John scratched his head, seeming unsure of something. "It's too late to try and get you in an inn. There— wait," John abruptly stopped his train of thought, "Are there any clothes under there?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Ah, Jesus." John ran a hand on his face. He scratched his head. He looked at his feet, then to Gladstone, then to Sherlock, then back to his feet.

_This must be awkward for him. Virgin? _Sherlock observed John as he seemed to be fumbling with the thought of finding a naked man on the beach wrapped up in a sail. _No. Virgin with males? Possibly. _The detective dually noted the hard work that would be ahead of him. Finally collecting himself, John stated, "I—I guess you could just come to stay at the palace. It's plenty big, and we don't get visitors there much anyway."

Sherlock felt a smile break across his face. What better way to get his kiss than to be with his prince almost all hours of the day? Things were working in his favor.

"Would you like to stay?" John asked suddenly.

_Is that even a question?_ Sherlock thought. He nodded again, this time a bit harder to convey his enthusiasm.

"Good… good." John smiled. That smile was so perfect. Sherlock could feel the blood rush to his cheeks. How hormonal. He mentally sighed and scolded himself. "Well, guess we should get going." John held out a hand to Sherlock. He took it and lost his balance as he came off the rock he had been perched on and fell into the prince's arms. Sherlock looked up at John, embarrassed, but the solider just smiled and started to laugh a bit. The former merman smiled too. "Let me help you there." John helped Sherlock lean against his shoulder. The height difference in the two made it a bit awkward, but the solider made it work.

"C'mon, Gladstone!" John yelled as he helped Sherlock start walking along the beach, being careful not to let the sail fall. With the faithful bulldog in the lead, the awkward couple started toward the palace.

"So I hear you were found on the beach."

Sherlock had been brought to John's enormous palace, contrasting to the prince's humble personality. The former merman was given a bath by one of the servants and then fitted with clothes- black slacks and a purple button up shirt that fit him just so. Now he was sitting at a long dinner table with John across from him and his butler, Michael, at the head of the table. Sherlock wondered for a brief moment why John wasn't at the head, but considering the previously mentioned personality, it seemed the prince hardly ever let that status go to his head.

"Yes, I just found him sitting on a rock. Gladstone was trying to lick him to death when I found him," John said, a smirk gracing his face.

_I remember otherwise, _Sherlock thought, looking down at the silverware. They were a bit different from the utensils used in Altlantica, but it wouldn't take long for Sherlock to figure them out.

"Well isn't that interesting..." said Michael as he twirled his fork, "Where are you from?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but then closed it again, remembering his situation.

"Oh, Mike, he, erm, he can't speak," John said apologetically, "I forgot to tell you. I'm sorry."

"It's quite alright, John. You certainly don't have to apologize." From just this exchange Sherlock could tell they were more than servant and master. They looked and talked to each other as equals. The former merprince had never really desired such a relationship with any of his servants. All his care takers could never amount to his intellect, even when he was a young child, and none of the other servants ever wanted to glance his way. The Holmes family had a long history of cold but just rulers, and based on that everyone assumed Sherlock was as heartless as his predecessors. It's not that he wasn't, he just thought it idiotic to come to a conclusion without having irrefutable data.

"Sir?"

The detective hadn't realized he had lapsed into a musing session. He looked up to find Michael and John both looking at him questioningly.

"Would you like to stay here until you can go back home?" the butler asked, almost as if Sherlock was a child.

_Just because I can't speak doesn't mean I lack intelligence, _Sherlock thought testily. He would have made a face, but they were offering him a place to stay, and he didn't want to give the impression he was ungrateful. That would just make things complicated. He assumed the best grin he could muster and nodded enthusiastically.

"Wonderful," Michael said happily. "Ah, there's our dinner."

Sherlock followed the butler's gaze and saw three covered dishes on a trolley. A servant stood behind each person at the table and proceeded to place the dishes in front of them and lifted the covers. Sherlock almost fell out of his seat in horror.

On the plate was a lobster that had had its shell ripped off and insides gutted, then the insides placed back inside and the shell placed back as decoration. Sherlock knew the humans ate fish, but the sight of one in front of him made him want to vomit. He thought back to Mrs. Hudson, picturing her being gutted and stuffed again. He heard the crunch of the shell as Michael began extract the meat from his. The former merman couldn't bear it.

"Excuse me, are you alright?" Sherlock had a napkin to his mouth and could feel the waves of nausea in his stomach. He looked up at John, who had a worried expression on his face. Sherlock shook his head no, not too vigorously as he was afraid he may actually vomit.

"I'm going to take him back to his room, sorry, Mike," John said, again apologetically as he stood up at walked around the table to Sherlock.

"Not at all, not at all," the butler said absentmindedly as he ate more lobster.

"C'mon," John said gently as he took Sherlock's hand and led him out of the dining hall. The feeling of the prince's warm hand against Sherlock's now clammy one was comforting for the former merman. He was stumbling behind John as he saw him to his room. The detective tried to memorize the floor plan of the castle, but he was still trying to get over the nausea. He couldn't believe he had gotten so squeamish at the sight of a dead fish. He had seen numerous dead bodies, fish and merman alike and he'd even surrounded himself with them on occasion for experimental purposes. Maybe the new legs had a part in it, the detective had no data on what walking on two legs could do to a former merman as it had never been done before, at least as far as he knew.

"We're here," John said, stopping in front of the door. Sherlock looked down and noticed John was still holding his hand. He wanted this moment to last longer, so he didn't instigate the separation. It wasn't until John noticed their hands were still together that they finally separated.

"Well, uh," John said awkwardly as he scratched the back of his head. Sherlock looked at him expectantly, which probably was making the prince more nervous. "Would you like to come with me to survey the town? It's a duty I have to fulfil and I thought you'd like to see the town."

Sherlock was ecstatic. He felt a smile spread wide across his face and without warning he hugged John tightly.

The solider grew rigid at the sudden contact. Sherlock realized what he was doing and quickly let go. Another strange reaction he couldn't understand. He felt the other reaction flooding his cheeks and making them hot and cursed himself. He looked down at his feet and started towards the door.

As if snapping out of a trance John said, "I'll take that as a yes..." and walked away. Sherlock shut the door and slid to the floor. How embarrassing, how petty, how…_human_. What was he becoming? What was the catalyst to these impulses? He jumped up and paced, his brain now awhirl with thoughts, questions, answers. He was so impressed in the pacing that he didn't notice Mrs. Hudson climb into the window and on the bed. She started to call his name quietly, but he ceased to notice.

"SHERLOCK!" Mrs. Hudson screamed. Sherlock almost tripped in surprise. He ran over to the bed and sat next to Mrs. Hudson, knowing she had much to tell him.

"You have no idea what it took to get here, I was almost cooked!" Mrs. Hudson was in hysterics. Sherlock knew not how to comfort her, but he would certainly kill the person who made Mrs. Hudson this way. "There will be no killing, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson warned, reading his mind, "It wouldn't give a good impression or get you that kiss any time soon."

Sherlock pouted and then transitioned to an inquiring look, silently questioning Mrs. Hudson as to what had happened.

"Oh, Sherlock, it was terrible," cried Mrs. Hudson, "I managed to get into the castle by climbing up the high rocks, but where I came in was the worst place possible!" Sherlock's eyes narrowed, already deducing where Mrs. Hudson had ended up. "I landed in the kitchen and on a cutting board no less! Oh, it's terrible just thinking about it!" Mrs. Hudson fanned her claw at her face to try and stave off her tears Sherlock tried his best to aid Mrs. Hudson, despite not really knowing what to do. He placed his hand on her shell. Mrs. Hudson recognized the sentiment and placed a claw on his hand. Recollecting herself, she continued her tale. She told of a French cook who sang as he chopped up other fish and how almost dying from being thrown in boiling had assumed a calm mask during the retelling, but inside he had started to simmer a bit with anger. No one would hurt Mrs. Hudson. Ever. Despite her warning, he still had started to think of around 40 to 50 possibilities of how he would make the cook pay.

"I would love to hear what's got you all in a tuss, but I guess I can't can I?" Mrs. Hudson said, hinting with her tone on how she felt about Sherlock's deal with the sea warlock. Sherlock deduced the best way of communicating would be charades. After around 30 minutes of Mrs. Hudson guessing and Sherlock trying to stay composed, knowing he might not be the best charades player, he had managed to communicate he was going out with the prince tomorrow.

"That's wonderful, dear!" Mrs. Hudson said, clapping her claws, "you're on your way to making that prince fall head over fin, or I guess it's feet, for you. But what are you going to wear? Certainly not that rag of a sail you found on the beach, I absolutely forbid it." As an answer, Sherlock gracefully got out of bed and went over to his closet. He pulled it open to reveal the numerous button-down shirts, dress pants, and other items of clothing that the servants of the castle had provided for him. He let a small grin come on his face as a reaction to Mrs. Hudson's awe.

"Well then," she said, hopping off the bed and going over to the closet, "let's get started."

* * *

The scene where John and Sherlock meet up again was such a pain in the patootie. Literally in the Disney movie Eric's just all, "Well, ok, you could just come to my house." After Sherlock Series 3 came out I got to get more familiar with everyone again and thus familiar with John's awkward nature, gotta love the stuff.  
Also Moriarty's a bit OOC because he's been Ursula'd (yes that's a thing.) My main inspiration for most of the exchange between him and Sherlock was from this deleted scene. and it's just perfect.

Also look at my fancy A/Ns :D I finally figured out how to do them on here OTL


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